


Birds Singing in A Sycamore Tree

by crescenteluce



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, au-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenteluce/pseuds/crescenteluce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester retires from hunting at 33 years old, four days after he had to burn Bobby Singer’s body. AU(-ish)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds Singing in A Sycamore Tree

Dean Winchester retired from hunting at 33 years old, four days after he had to burn Bobby Singer’s body. He hadn’t spoken about it with Sam, but they shared one look when Dean aimlessly clicked his lighter before dropping it on the cloth that covered not his father, but the man who might as well have been. For a split second, when Dean looked at Sam, he saw in his eyes pure, unbridled determination. He realized that for the first time, Sam had told every rational voice in his head to shut up and sit the fuck down because for him, there was only one thing left and that was killing Dick Roman.

That moment, Dean knew that if they went on, getting killed was maybe not the worst thing that could happen. That moment, he realized that killing Dick Roman would not be enough, because the fucking hellhounds killed Jo and Ellen and if they were somehow able to finish off the Leviathans, they would be next. After the hellhounds, it would be every fucking demon on the planet, because maybe the guy that killed Mary Winchester was dead, for them it would only be finished when there would never be a Mary Winchester anymore, for anyone.

Sam had lived his whole life with grabby hands and needy fingers pulling at him, but the guy had barely strayed from the righteous path because he was so, so goddamn good. Dean didn’t really know when it had happened, but fact was that he looked up to Sam more that Sam would ever know. It was his anchor, dragging him to the dirty floor, telling him every day, over and over again: _if Sam can do this while resisting Lucifer, you can kill one more demon. If Sam can do this while having demon blood coursing through his veins, you can kill one more siren._

He liked to think that Sam was this embodiment of all that was good on this earth and that there was nothing that could corrupt his little brother. This was not true, but it was how he liked to think about it. 

\------

The flash of determination however, was like he noticed that the chain on his anchor was rusty beyond repair and that the solid foundation he had built his life around was one snap away from letting go. Sam would undoubtedly survive this, but at what cost? 

Hunting had always been his second job, because his primary occupation was taking care of Sammy. And for that, he had to turn his back on the earth and tell them that they had to do their own saving this time, that every living soul on this planet could die for all he cared, as long as Sammy was okay. 

So he told Sam they were taking a break from hunting. He’d expected him to throw a fit, tell Dean that there were people dying out there, but Sam didn’t. Sam looked at him with exhausted eyes, shoulders slumping and nodded once before curling up in the passengers seat in the Impala and pressing his eyes shut. 

It took him four days to get their affairs in order. He hunted down a shapeshifter, forced him to turn the number one face on the FBI’s most wanted list and drove the body to Frank Devereaux. With the body, Frank could go to the FBI and collect the money and probably clear out his name in exchange for his everlasting silence on the matter. Dean drove away with two million dollars cash and threw out every weapon in his trunk, except his handgun and Ruby’s knife. 

After that, he drove for three days, Sammy waking up every now and then in the passenger’s seat after sleeping most of the day, but not looking rested at all. When they finally stopped, they had reached an abandoned house in the woods, two miles from the nearest civilisation. With a pang of pain in his heart, Dean realized that there was no way for him to carry his sleeping brother inside like he used to when John had finally found a motel a two in the morning, so he woke his brother up and told him to take the stairs, second door on the right. 

Sam complied without a word and dragged himself inside, dropping like dead on the dirty mattress that lay on the floor. Later, Dean would walk into the room quietly and throw a blanket over his brother who was now at least 6’3 but still managed to make himself look like the 3 foot toddler that curled himself in a tiny ball after a particular bad dream. So Dean did what he had always done, he put a hand on Sammy’s shoulder and hummed Mama Cass’ _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ because it was easier to concentrate on the pain of his little brother that to look inside his own chest and be confronted with the aching emptiness inside. 

It took them four weeks to find a rhythm. Every morning at breakfast, Sam would look at Dean and ask him when they’d hunt down Dick Roman. And every time, Dean would answer that there hadn’t been any sign of him, so they could as well wait one more day. Sam would nod and pick up the paper that miraculously missed the first five pages, leaving only the sports section and boring economic news without any mention of people dying. After breakfast, Sam would take the Impala for a drive to the library and came back with a book that he finished the same day. Dean would set out to repair everything that was broken in the house because he knew that as long as the house needed a pair of hands that pulled at broken pieces of wood, he didn’t have to wonder if he’d ever be the same again. 

In the evenings, they would sit on the porch, drinking beer and talking about the house, about the books; about everything that did not require a sentence to start with ‘I have this feeling-‘. The talking would sometimes stop for a second when Sam’s eyes trailed off to a point in the far distance and his fingers would absentmindedly press the scar on his hand. Like many things, they didn’t talk about it but Dean knew that stopping hunting did not stop Lucifer from appearing in his brother’s mind.

He liked to think that, after a certain time, Sam had made peace with the hallucinations and that when Lucifer appeared, he would pretend to grab a beer and sit with them quietly, only visible in Sam’s mind. This was not true, but it was how he liked to think about it. 

\------

After three months, Dean started to see changes in his brother’s behaviour that he hadn’t told Sam he prayed for every night to a God he knew wouldn’t listen. Sam’s nightmares returned only sporadically and when they did, Dean would sit next to him and hum the song he’d hummed at least five hundred times before, noting that usually, Sam would relax before he could even reach the part about the sycamore tree. 

One morning, Sam was humming the song under his breath before he stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide. 

‘Dude.’ He said, a look of shocked horror on his face, but amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. ‘You’ve been singing me to sleep with a fucking love song all these years.’

Confused, Dean recounted the lyrics in his head, realizing that on a scale of a Kinsey zero to Tom Cruise if you had to believe the tabloids, singing about 'craving your kiss' was pretty gay. 

He didn’t really mind though, because Sam had been laughing for three minutes straight now and the sound of his brother’s laughter after all they had been through ranked right next to Zep’s Ramble On. 

It was also that morning that three knocks on their front door was followed by the sound of a body collapsing on the porch and Sam came back to the living room with two armfuls of Cas who later explained that: yes, he was alive, no, he was no longer an angel. And if someone would please take him out for burgers because he’d taken five buses after finding out where they were from Frank and he was starving. 

Later that evening, after nearly four hours of non-stop explaining what had happened in the last six months at both sides, Dean was almost asleep when his bedroom door opened and Castiel took three tentative steps inside. Opening his eyes and squinting against the lights, he saw Castiel’s hunched shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly picking at his nails and he knew that Sam wasn’t the only one that had trouble with nightmares. 

‘If you’re a blanket hog, you’re sleeping on the floor.’ He warned Castiel and the fallen angel nodded, sliding in bed next to Dean. Before falling asleep, Cas put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, maybe not even aware of his own actions and held on tight, like Dean was _his_ anchor to the ground. For two hours after that, Dean wondered how a gesture that was so obviously not sexual could also be so frighteningly intimate. 

The next night, Cas came to his bed again and the night after that too. Within a week, it had become a routine and Dean would fall asleep and wake up to a hand grasping his shoulder tightly. They didn’t talk about it, of course not, but Dean knew that by just being _there_ when Cas went to sleep and woke up, he might have helped the fallen angel get through the nights.

He liked to think that Cas actually never had a nightmare, but just liked sleeping next to Dean. This was not true, but it was how he liked to think about it. 

\------

It took one and a half year before Dean stopped ripping the front pages from the paper. Dean didn’t know why there weren’t any reports anymore that pointed at the sign of Leviathans taking over the world. He figured that maybe, there had been some other hunter that had taken care of them and with a strange twist in his stomach, he realized that the world was doing fine without them. 

That evening, he sat on the porch with Sam and Cas and realized that the twisted little reality they had right now was all there ever would be. Sam was reading books about the law again and tried to hide the fact that he was making late night phone calls with Sarah Blake, but he also flinched at the sight of fire. Castiel had taken great joy in reading theology texts and telling the Winchesters about every single thing that didn’t make sense, but he also had days where he would stand on the porch for hours and watch the sky with a pained expression, trying to talk to his brothers and sisters but receiving no answer. 

They were fucked up, Dean realized, but it was all he had and all that he would get. If Bobby were here, would tell him that he was lucky to ‘get out’ and that was all it took for him to call the local college and ask about their law program.  
And because he figured he deserved a little happiness of his own, that night he turned on his side and pulled Cas close to him, whispering that he wasn’t much, he wasn’t whole but that if Cas wanted, he could get it all. 

The hand on his shoulder slid down his back to his waist and Cas breathed ‘yes’ against his cheekbone before kissing him long and hard, every press of lips telling Dean he was alive, this was real and that they might both be broken, but together they could maybe be a little whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Taking place after 7x10  
> \- Song mentioned is Dream a Little Dream of Me (Mama Cass version)  
> \- Format of the story is based on this comic: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/house


End file.
